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Sunday Morning Amnesia

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John Manetta Once Told Me

Heartless, Not Stupid

Many in the Cornell community wake up in the same state every Sunday morning (read: mid-afternoon). Everyone knows exactly what feeling I am talking about: the “oh man, what did I do last night? Where did my wallet, cell phone and left shoe go? Who is in my bed? What is her name again?” That’s right, I’m talking about Sunday morning amnesia; it is one of the most shameful and pathetic states that we as college students will experience at Cornell. Last Sunday, however, those feelings of shame and embarrassment should have stung just a little bit more than usual.

While everyone was out drunk dialing their friends to ramble on about the sketchy guy passed out on the bathroom floor, they should have been calling our nation’s defenders to thank them for the sacrifices they make each day.

You forgot about a whole lot more than your new (and anonymous) friend, who somehow wound up lying next to you Sunday morning; you forgot our nation’s guardians, whose memories ironically survive through the Tombs of the Unknown. Some of these names, however, should never be forgotten.

Names like Jason Dunham should be remembered by all of us in the Cornell community. Jason grew up less than an hour and a half from Ithaca in the small town of Scio, New York. He should have been back in Scio last Friday to celebrate his twenty-fifth birthday. But the candles that were set aflame in Scio did not decorate a birthday cake, but a vigil in his memory.

Jason, you could say, was destined for the United States Marine Corps. His loyalty to God, country and the Corps, his ideals of sacrifice and fortitude and ultimately his selflessness made him an ideal poster boy for the Marines. Hell, Jason even shared his birthday with the Marine Corps (the Corps celebrated its 231st birthday on November 10th); Jason is the reason why the moniker of our nation’s first line of defense is “Semper Fi.” One could say, without a breath of doubt, that the Marine Corps and Jason Dunham was a match made in heaven.

And like so many of his brothers and sisters before him, Jason’s life was destined for an untimely end. In death, however, Jason ensured that others would enjoy life. Screenplays dream of such a combat scene. I mean, the idea of jumping on a live grenade seems so cheesy, so utterly Hollywood, that few of us in the “real world” of civilian life could comprehend such a thing.

For Jason, however, such an act was mere instinct. So when an insurgent’s grenade hit the deck, so did Jason — but he did not dive out of harm’s way as one would think. Such an act of self-preservation would be completely understandable to the rest of us, but it would be intolerable for Jason. He, instead, dove on top of the grenade without so much as blinking, using his torso and his helmet to absorb the brunt of the ensuing explosion. He succumbed to his wounds a week later on April 22, 2004.

As a result of his heroism, Jason is being posthumously awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor, our nation’s highest military decoration. He will be the second service member to receive this award since hostilities began in Iraq in 2003.

He will, however, certainly not be the last. If there is one thing that every breathing member of our armed forces knows, it is sacrifice. It courses through their veins almost as naturally as their own blood.

The idea of sacrifice does not mean too much to a college student. The greatest sacrifice that most of us make will come in the form of a sleepless night spent cramming for a prelim or writing a paper. We should instead be losing sleep over the disrespect we show our peers, who leave everything behind to guard our freedom and security in foreign lands.

It may be hard to focus on the outside world when we are so insulated at Cornell, but it is inexcusable not to appreciate the efforts that provide us with such a secure environment.

We can all do more to keep the memories of our comrades overseas fresh. Because the greatest dishonor, the most grave offense, the highest form of degradation we could show our brothers and sisters in America’s armed service would be to forget all that they have done for us in the past.

Instead of fondly recalling that three thousand-person rager you went to last weekend, you should make an effort to keep the sacrifices that three thousand people have made in Operation Iraqi Freedom and Operation Enduring Freedom. Instead of trying to ban the ROTC program from campus, maybe we should shake their hands and thank them for everything their organization has done for our community and our country. Instead of just buying the “Support the Troops” bumper sticker, maybe we should live by such words.

Zell Miller said it best: “It is the soldier, not the reporter, who has given us the freedom of the press. It is the soldier, not the poet, who has given us freedom of speech. It is the soldier, not the agitator, who has given us the freedom to protest. It is the soldier who salutes the flag, serves beneath the flag, whose coffin is draped by the flag, who gives that protester the freedom to abuse and burn that flag.”

As a reporter, who has done little to defend the freedom of the press, I would just like to say Thank You to all the Jason Dunhams of our country who have given me such an opportunity.

Billy McMorris is a junior in the College of Arts and Sciences. He can be reached at wjm27@cornell.edu. John Manetta Once Told Me appears alternate Tuesdays.

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